


The king is dead, long live the king

by Leftover



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Character Death, King Harrow as Prince, M/M, Pre-Canon, i have literally no idea how to tag this, let's see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 14:10:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15996827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leftover/pseuds/Leftover
Summary: It's been eight days since the king died.There are words at the back of his throat, stuck between his duty to the crown and friendship to the prince, and instead of saying what he wants to say, he bows deeply at the waist.»It's time,« Viren says.





	The king is dead, long live the king

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I watched the first episode of tdp because I wanted to watch something sweet and short while I was eating and, guess what, I binged all episodes and absolutely loved it. °v°
> 
> What is about to follow is me just .. pulling shit out of thin air. I _lovelovelove_ the dynamic between Viren and Harrow in the first few episodes and guess what, I had to write something about it. It kind of spiraled from that. I don't know shit about those characters. Or the world. Or the kingdom. I don't actually know why they mourn their king for seven sunsets, but that won't stop me from bullshitting my way through and sprinkle it with childhood memories until Harrow gets his crown. And not his man. Oh, well. 
> 
> So. 
> 
> And please, if you have any ideas, headcanons or anything else or just want to talk about tdp, feel absolutely free to [Hit me up.](https://leftovershreds.tumblr.com/) \o/

_»Neither soldiers nor money can defend a king but only friends won by good deeds, merit, and honesty.«_ – Sallust

.

Dawn arrives.

Harrow makes a striking figure against the first rays of sunlight and Viren hat always admired the broad set of his shoulders, the regal posture and raw strength hidden beneath the noble embroidered set of clothes.

It's been eight days since the king died.

There are words at the back of his throat, stuck between his duty to the crown and friendship to the prince, and instead of saying what he wants to say, he bows deeply at the waist.

»It's time,« Viren says.

.

_to mourn his passing_

Silence falls upon the kingdom.

The sun sets beautifully behind the towering mountains, streaks of gold and red painting the sky in the colors of his house, cloaking the faces of his people in long shadows. There is grief set in every line of his face; for Harrow has to mature and grow, to be, what he has to be, now, that his father is dead.

»Today,« Harrow starts, and his voice doesn't crack, »we lost our king. My father succumbed to an old wound he received years ago. A battle he fought honorably for his kingdom, to uphold the fragile peace in which we live. But today, today he lost.«

His voice doesn't crack, but his heart does, the pain of losing his father like a physical blow. And he remembers sitting on the bedside, holding the thin, pale hand of his father, begging and crying and praying-

»Now, we will mourn his passing,« Harrow says, around the burning of his eyes, »For we have lost our king.«

And he clasps his hand in front of him, bows his head. There is the telltale rustling of clothes beneath the balcony, the sound of people kneeling and folding their hands and feels like the ground underneath his feet is disappearing. He has to recite the prayer, has to give the signal to the priest, there are beacons to be lit, to let the rest of the kingdom know, but he _can't_ –

a hand pressing against his back.

A familiar, comforting warmth that stings.

(for he doesn't deserve the comfort, not after his words full of unbridled rage and hurt, thrown into Virens face after listening to the breath of his father stuttering and _dying_ , cursing the world and magic and everything in between)

»Go on,« he hears, a voice low and gentle.

Harrow takes a deep breath.

And recites the prayer.

.

_to honor his sacrifices_

»He told me about her,« Harrow confides into the silence of the hall, fingers hovering above the golden frame of the portrait, »Once. After I screamed at him and accused him of never loving her.«

Viren looks upon the painting.

It's covered in a thin layer of dust, turning the hair of the woman a dull grey, but it can't diminish her beauty. There is grace in her long neck, high cheekbones, and the smile on her lips is vast and full of joy, a hand resting on the curve of her stomach. And even though it's just a painting, he can't help but notice the similarities between her and Harrow.

»He burnt everything that reminded him of her. Except for this,« Harrow continues, »It hurt him too much, I think. Losing her. He never recovered from it, and I thought, I would never understand what drove him to do this, but–«

He sighs, weary, »I do now.«

Viren remembers the end of the queen. It's the darkest chapter of the late king's reign, his decision to abandon his wife in favor of defending the breach on the border to Xadia and his duty and love to his kingdom, his people, has no equal in all of history. He remembers it, like any other of his age, as a footnote in the books of history.

For that is what most commonly happens to the spouses of kings.

»This is what it means to be king,« Harrow says and balls his hands to fists, »Sacrificing everything for the sake of the kingdom. Even those you love.«

And it hurts, to say those words.

To accept that–

(Harrow turns, jaw set and eyes _pleading_ , willing Viren to understand what he can't bear to speak out loud, for all that Viren is his friend, his closest companion, he's going to be his advisor first, and if he has to choose, it is clear what he must do, but Harrow can't endure what his father had to if Viren ends up like his mother, nothing more than a smiling painting in a frame)

–everything ends.

.

_to honor his deeds_

Viren is a wee lad of five the first time he sets eyes on the prince, and even all his parents did to prepare him for this meeting, telling him about the grand and majestic figure the king is and, by extension, the prince – he is woefully unimpressed.

»This is a glowtoad,« prince Harrow exclaims loudly, smile wide with missing tooth, »A merchant gave him to me, told me that you could use it to lure a gigantic monster from the depths of the sea. Want to try it with me?«

There are so many things wrong with this request that Viren doesn't know where to start objecting.

_Might as well start at the top_ , Viren thinks and opens his mouth to deliver a pinched scolding, only to be interrupted as soon as he drew breath.

»Yeah, you're right, it's probably not big enough to be a juicy treat for a sea monster,« Harrow talks right over him, taking his wrist – with sticky fingers that leave sticky imprints on his skin and _ugh_ – pulling him across the yard, »Let's raid the kitchen!«

»Prince Harr–« Viren starts again, for he is nothing, if not persistent.

»Father told me about you. About your parents. I didn't like the last advisor much, y'know, too stuck up and boring,« Harrow prattles on, interrupting Viren a second time and really, if that's going to continue, maybe Viren should offer himself as a bait, just to escape these tiring boy, »No one knows to have fun around here. Everyone is busy being all grown up and _boring_.«

_Third time's the charm_ , Viren thinks, opens his mouth and, »Prince–«

»Here, hold him, I'm gonna check if the coast is clear,« Harrow shoves the toad at him, and Viren makes a choked up noise, something between a squeal and a disgusted groan, »Yeah, like that, awesome, be right back!«

The toad in his arms is heavy and sticky, and Viren regrets ever agreeing to his mother, promising to befriend the prince, just because _his father, the king, told us he's lonely and in need of a friend, so, be a dear and be nice to him, okay_?

(it takes him two months to see that, yes, Harrow is indeed a lonely and deeply troubled kid, loud and brash and uncouth, demanding the attention he craves causing trouble wherever he can, yearning for the love his father is unable to provide him and Viren can't help but, despite the horrible glowtoad, to grow fond of him)

.

_to remember his memory_

The smell of herbs and medicine can't cover up the stench of blood and decay that seems to seep into every fabric of the room, the wealth and expensive furnishing not enough to hide that fact that this is becoming more and more the deathbed of the king. It's warm. And stifling.

Viren swallows around the lump in his throat, »Your Highness.«

The king – pale beneath the dark complexion of his skin – opens his eyes, breath shallow and weak. There are deep lines carved in his face, speaking of years full of grief and stress.

»Viren,« he croaks, »Come closer.«

And so he does, seating himself on a chair to his left.

On the other side of the bed, slumped in another chair, head pillowed on his arms next to the legs of the king, rests Harrow. It looks uncomfortable, and the tracks on his cheeks look like tears and Viren has to squash the need to pull him into a position, that won't leave him with a crick in his neck as soon as he wakes up.

The king laughs softly, a wheezing sound that ends in a rattling cough.

Viren is out of his chair immediately, »Do you require the healer, your majesty?«

»No, there's not much he can do anymore,« the king answers, lips forming the words slowly and Viren reluctantly sits down again, »I don't have much time left, but there is something that needs to be said, regardless.«

»If the king wishes to relate his last orders, may I propose to wake the prince to–«

»I want to offer you my sincere thanks,« the king weakly lifts a hand and Viren stills, »For loving my son, while I was unable to do so.«

(and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest, for this is something that they've never dared to name, this thing between Viren and Harrow, they were content with the way they were, still are, confident in whatever they feel for each other is genuine and hearing someone else calling it _love_ , makes it _real_ –

and it can never _be_ real)

.

_to aid his bereaved_

»–and then he told me, that this 'isn't acceptable behavior for a prince' even though he was knee deep in mud himself, hypocrite that he was!« Harrow laughs, his whole body shaking with mirth, »They had to burn his coat, it was absolutely ruined. Ah, good times.«

And he quietens, slowly, weight slumping against Virens side.

»If I remember correctly, that was the ninth coat you ruined with your antics,« Viren bemusedly says, smile fond and warm.

The hallway is quiet, and void of any guards, the sound of chirping and rustling leaves a steady thrum in the background. They sit below an open window, back pressed against the wall, sides pressed against each other. A familiar, comfortable situation and it's easy getting lost reminiscing old times like that.

»I was a horrible child,« Harrow admits readily, »But I grew out of it.«

»Eventually,« Viren corrects, snorting.

»Oh, please. As if _you_ have room to talk,« Harrows throws his weight against him, pushing him off balance, »If I remember correctly – and my memory is impeccable, I’ll have you know – it was you, who was right beside me, every time–"

» _I_ will have _you_ know–« Viren starts, bracing his arms against Harrow's shoulders.

»–I got myself in trouble, while you pretended to be this impeccable, perfect stuck up–«

»–that I was only there because your father asked for my assistance.«

The fight drains out of Harrow the moment Virens lips close around the last words, and it's the wrong thing to say, the loss of the king cutting through the illusion like a knife and the conversation dies, just like their cheerful mood. Pain flashes across Harrow's face and Virens hands follow the curve of his neck, brushing his hair and pulling him forward, unable to think around the burning need to shoulder at least some amount of his grief.

»Your father loved you,« Viren whispers, for he is not brave enough to confess his love and hiding behind the king was and forever will be easier.

.

_to celebrate his life_

There are at least fourteen different pastries on the long table inside the hall, all filled with different kind of fillings and, as chance will have it, all of them are sweet. Harrow pulls his face in a disgusted grimace, smelling each of them and putting it back on the plate – ignoring the reproachful glare Viren is pointing at his back.

Well, at least until he's shoved so hard from behind, that he nearly falls face forward into the punchbowl.

»The fu–«

»Language, Harrow,« Viren interrupts and levels another, deeply unimpressed look at him, »Really. You're fifteen now, can't you at least pretend to be a little more mature?«

»There was a time you called me prince,« Harrow answers, rubbing his tweaking backside.

»A time spanning five minutes until I realized that you'd never stop and listen to me if I continue to treat you like the prince you are and adamantly refuse to act like,« Viren continues and straightens a crease in Harrow's shirt.

»It's just father's birthday. Happens every year,« Harrow answers, grasping Virens hands and pushing them down, »I fail to see why we have to celebrate him getting grey hair.«

There is poorly masked loathing and bitterness in those words, delivered with an eye-roll and indifference, but Viren knows the prince for ten years and there isn't much the other can hide from him. And his face shifts into something more sympathetic, that freezes as soon as Harrow continues talking.

»It's not like he's _died_ –«

»Harrow,« Viren interrupts, harshly, the death of his own father too fresh on his mind to entertain Harrow with such a horrible notion, like the king dying anytime soon.

(and it's years and years later, that Harrow finds himself in front of the same, long table, fingers trailing along the pastry plates, that his gaze wanders to the empty throne and the _hurtgriefguilt_ sitting like lead in his stomach churns, so that he can't even think about trying the pastries that are not filled with sweets–

instead, he thinks about all those wasted years, hating his own father)

.

_to worship his reign_

The man that looks back in the mirror is one devoid the crone on his head; it's a man who looks tired and drained and nothing like the old king, who demanded respect, even on the verge of dying and this is what scares him the most. Harrow can see his father in the set of his shoulders, can see his father in the beard that took ages the grow, can see his father in the color of his eyes, but that won't be enough.

»I'm scared,« he confesses, thinking himself alone, but isn't.

A hand on his back, warmth and familiar, Viren a steady presence at his side. There are none of Harrows doubts reflecting in Virens eyes, and the warmth spreads from his back to his chest, his heart a steadily fast beating sound in his ears.

»I will never be the king my father was,« Harrow says, and it's no longer accompanied with spite, the insight freeing and scaring at the same time, »I can only be me and hope that it will be enough. Will you–« His breath hitches, voice choking and dying.

He can't ask that of him.

His father took a queen to guarantee the survival of his line, to continue his house and produce an heir, for the kingdom would fall in disarray without a king to lead them and Harrow knows that this, too, is what will be of him expected. There is no space in his life, except the one Viren already occupies.

If Harrow could, he would give Viren the world.

»I will stand with you,« Viren answers, readily, »Whatever you need.«

(and later, standing side by side still for hours, watching the painter working on the first portrait of the new king, Viren can't help but think about the queen and wonder what it was that she thought about and made her smile and if it, maybe, is the same reason that Viren smiles)

.

**Author's Note:**

> »Seven sunsets to honor the fallen king.
> 
> One, to mourn his passing.  
> One, to honor his sacrifices.  
> One, to honor his deeds.  
> One, to remember his memory.  
> One, to celebrate his life.  
> One, to aid his bereaved.  
> One, to worship his reign.
> 
> And on the dawn of the eight-day, we will begin anew;  
> the king is dead, long live the king.«


End file.
